


Silenced

by LumosLyra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Memory Charms, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosLyra/pseuds/LumosLyra
Summary: Trapped in a marriage contract to a violent man, Millicent finds an escape in the arms of someone she should have remembered, but couldn't.
Relationships: Millicent Bulstrode/Graham Montague, Millicent Bulstrode/Lucian Bole
Comments: 42
Kudos: 47
Collections: Sing Me a Rare: The Mash-Ups





	Silenced

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare: Mash Ups. Much love to my Beta and Alpha who shall remain nameless for the moment. 
> 
> Song Prompts: Sound of Silence (Disturbed) and Show Yourself (Idina Menzel and Evan Rachel Wood; Frozen 2).

**_Hello darkness my old friend_ **

**_I’ve come to talk with you again_ **

It wasn’t the first time she’d sat before the mirror with her left hand pressing against the cool glass, the heat of her body forming a small outline of condensation. 

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, right arm wrapped around her middle and her face a stoic mask of indifference. It was something she practised in the wee hours of the morning as the bruises he’d left on her face faded with the coming of the dawn. 

She swallowed down the bolus of saliva that formed as she looked at herself, ignoring the burning as it traveled past the back of her throat and down her esophagus. She’d been silenced for so long, so many times that she didn’t even recognize her own voice. She’d screamed her vocal folds raw in the silence, just as she did every time he came to her at night and forced himself upon her. 

Not that he cared.

He’d been leaving bruises on her body since the day her marriage contract was finalized. What a spectacular fifteenth birthday present to have one’s betrothed sneak through the home in the middle of the night, take away your voice, pin you to the bed, and force himself upon you until you were bleeding in more ways than one.

Bite marks on her shoulders were faded to silvery scars but had once bled as red as the robins that made their nests in the trees outside of her windows. It was like he was some kind of possessed animal, rabid and feral.

She fought back every time, screaming in silence and trying to push him away.

It never occurred to her to lie back and think of England and perhaps he’d lose interest. She was a fighter and in all cases but one, she could give as good as she got. He’d learned early on to petrify her the moment the door opened so she couldn’t slice him open with a spell like she’d managed to do once. It was shallow but it left a scar and every time she saw that damned mark she felt a surge of pride rush through her. 

She’d tried to tell someone - anyone who might listen and could do something, but she was brushed aside. “Such an advantageous match, Millicent,” they’d said. “You’ve done so well to make a match with that family.” 

So, here she sat in the dark, wrapped in a single white sheet, hand pressed to the cool glass, while the abusive man she was supposed to marry in one weeks time snored in her bed. Staring intently at her own reflection, Millicent practised the expression she would have to keep up over the next week before she was tied to him forever. 

**_But my words like silent raindrops fell_ **

**_And echoed_ **

**_In the wells of silence_ **

“You’ve a letter, darling,” her mother said as she gingerly dipped her knife in the bowl of jam. “It arrived this morning, something from the Ministry.” 

Whatever it was, her mother appeared unconcerned. Millicent, on the other hand, had been reading the Prophet for weeks now in secret. “ _News publications are for the men dear, you’d be much better served reading a bit of poetry or practising your embroidery,”_ her mother had said. 

She knew what was coming. 

“Thank you, Mother,” Millicent replied politely. 

She didn’t dare ask about the letter anymore over breakfast, no matter how her hands trembled as she fed herself half a piece of toast and a bit of fruit. She must have been distracted because she buttered her toast and topped it with raspberry compote even though she couldn’t stand the stuff, only coming to realize what she’d done when her mother made an inquiry.

No matter how little she ate or how much she tried to exercise, she was never going to fit into those sample sized robes her mother was always gushing over.“ _If you’d just try a little harder, Millicent, you would be such a lovely girl.”_ No, letters were for the afternoon when women were supposed to be in a state of repose; reading the inane poetry her mother favored or practising something of the delicate arts, and addressing correspondence and calling cards. 

Breakfast in the Bulstrode household was a largely silent affair. When her brothers lived at home, it was much more entertaining to watch her prim and proper Pureblood mother chide them for using the wrong fork or dumping the jelly bowl out onto their plates while her large and imposing father did nothing to curb their misbehavior. He simply read his paper, drank his coffee, and ate the same type of blueberry scone each morning as he had done for the past twenty-two years of her life. 

She didn’t ask to be excused. She didn’t bring up any interesting topics of conversation. She simply speared the tiniest slice of cantaloupe she could find and chewed it diligently, remaining silent as her mother’s dictation rolled through her head: 

_“Good girls speak when they’re spoken to.”_

_“Millicent, darling, it’s not the time for that topic of conversation.”_

_“Keep quiet while the men are conversing, it won’t do to have them know you’re clever. Men don’t want a clever witch, they want a sweet, quiet one.”_

As she grew, she wondered if anything of the things her mother had told her were true. 

She doubted it. 

But she followed the rules, just as she was raised to do. 

**_Every inch of me is trembling_ **

**_And not from the cold_ **

Her chest was heaving, her breath coming in short pants as the parchment crinkled between her manicured fingers. The anguished sound of her mother's sobs was drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears as her eyes scanned the letter for the eighth time. 

_Miss Millicent Bulstrode,_

_We regret to inform you that your marriage contract to The Honourable Lucian Bole has been declared null and void as you were unable to wed prior to the established deadline set forth in subsection 12 of WL 2675._

_Your presence is required at the Ministry on Monday next at half-four in the afternoon. We have enclosed a pamphlet within commonly asked questions related to the Preservation of Society Act as well as several forms which must be completed in full._

_Hoping you are well,_

_Emmeline C. Carstock_

_First Secretary for the Office of Magical Marriages and Bonds_

Her father was presumably at the Ministry, petitioning for something to be done and waving his sack of galleons around like it was a flag. If her father had anything to say about it, her marriage contract to that animal would be reinstated and she’d live the life she’d resigned herself to. 

_“You’ll never want for anything, Millicent,”_ her mother had said, _“You’ll find a way to keep him happy and your relationship will be much better for it. Love will grow with time.”_

Love would never grow between them. He’d taken any chance of that when he’d raped her at fifteen. 

No.

This was her chance. 

“We mustn’t be upset, Mother. Either Father will sort it or he won’t,” she said, the rush of sheer potential going to her head and coming out of her mouth before she could even think to stop it from bubbling out. 

Her mother silenced her and wept. 

Millicent smiled. 

**_I can sense you there_ **

**_Like a friend I’ve always known_ **

The room was crowded- stifling even. 

Millicent held the bit of folded parchment in her hand and kept her eyes forward, trained on the dais at the front of the room. She knew from having tea with Tracey and Luna, who’d been matched the week prior, that there was no use in being impatient. The ministry never did anything on time and, until the side door opened and the tiny wizard with the white beard and hair braided with wooden beads came out, that nothing would happen. 

It didn’t stop the room from buzzing. 

Millicent resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose when a man dropped into the chair beside her and placed his arm around her shoulders, jagged fingernails scratching over the soft silk. Gods, she hated the way he smelled - like maple and musk. On anyone else the scent would have been nice, but it had surrounded her in the violence of his every action. 

“Your father sorted things,” he said, his lips pressed close to the shell of her ear. 

Stoic. Impassive. She’d practised for this. 

“We won’t know for certain until the meeting begins,” Millicent said with her mouth pressed in a firm line and her dark blue eyes focused on the arrangement of lilies behind the podium. _Like a funeral_ , she thought.

“I won’t have anyone else warming my sheets, my girl. You’ve been mine since we were kids,” he crooned, hand dropping to her silk-covered thigh. 

She forced down the shudder that threatened to course down her spine and turned her head a fraction of an inch, her voice lowering. “We’re in public, Lucian.” 

“Privacy can be arranged,” he said, his hand slipping over the dark fabric of her skirt to find her stocking covered leg beneath, his fingers creeping back up along the curve of her knee.   
  
“I said no, Lucian.” Millicent rose from her seat and the parchment wrinkled in her fingers as she stared down at him, unable to keep the facade of impassivity on her face. His hand tightened on the back of her knee and his jagged fingernails tore the silk of her stockings to dig into her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused her pain.

He grasped her by the forearm and pulled her back down into her chair. “You always say no, precious, but that’s never stopped me before.” 

Millicent knew she would have another set of bruises in short order with the grip of his fingers on her arm. She sat still, unmoving, eyes closed as his other hand continued to travel upwards under her dress. She tried to make a sound, another protest, anything to force him to stop but she found herself silenced. It was the one bit of wandless, wordless magic he knew. 

Mercifully, the side door swung open on it’s hinges and Lucian’s hand withdrew from her dress as the small wizard made his way to the podium. Millicent’s dark blue eyes fluttered open and she smoothed her skirts with her hands, the constriction in her throat releasing with the dissipation of the silencing spell. 

A hush fell over the crowd and the old wizard began to speak in a slow, droning voice that reminded Millicent of her days in History of Magic. He read from a bit of parchment about the process by which the selections were made and the next steps each of them would need to take. When he finished, small purple envelopes popped into existence in front of each of the attendees. As Millicent reached for hers, it was snatched from her grasp by the man sitting at her side. 

“You won’t be needing that, precious. As I said, your father fixed it,” Lucian sneered and tucked her envelope in the pocket of his suit coat before opening his own. 

In the cacophony of sound rising from the room, Millicent rose from her chair and turned to leave as Lucian stared at the card he’d pulled from the envelope. She chanced a glance back at Lucian and his face was red with rage. She needed to move. She didn’t know what it was that made him so angry, but if she didn’t get out of his grasp, he’d side-along her somewhere and take his irritation out on her. 

A hand grasped frantically at her skirt and she caught the enraged whisper of, “What did you do?” before she fell face first into the chest of another man whose arms immediately encircled her. The simple embrace lit a fire in her veins and she leaned into whoever he was, the smoky scent of spellfire and expensive cigars surrounded her and made her feel dizzy. 

“Everything alright, Lucian?” a deep baritone asked and she felt the rumble of it through the chest of the man she was currently pressed against. She made a move to step back, but he didn’t let her go and for some inexplicable reason, she knew she was safe. He felt like home and she couldn’t explain it, but she didn’t dare move. 

“Fine.” The word was spat between clenched teeth. 

“Good. Who’d you match with?” he asked, the strong arms curled around Millicent releasing, though the gentle touch of his hand remained on her back. 

Keeping her face tucked against his chest and her hands pressed against the soft wool of his suit jacket, she breathed slowly, intoxicated. He was like her own personal Amortentia. Even if he didn’t bloody smell so good, he was keeping her from Lucian’s wrath, even if he didn’t know it. 

“There’s been a mistake.” 

“No, I don’t believe there has.” The heel of his palm pressed against her spine, turning her gently and guiding her away from her betrothed. Her back was straight and her feet were moving and she didn’t care who this stranger was but she was going with him for better or for worse. 

He didn’t lead her far, just to a small conference room that was down a few winding hallways in the Ministry. She felt the pang of loss, irrational though it seemed, when his hand no longer pressed against the small of her back. 

She clasped her hands in front of her, her eyes still down as she tried to control everything she was feeling. She thought about the mirror and the late night practising and all of her mother’s asinine rules for being a Pureblood lady of any standing. 

The deep baritone broke the silence, though his tone was light and amused. “I’m a bit amazed he doesn’t have a black eye.” 

“Excuse me?” Her head popped up, blue eyes meeting a set of dark amber like the smooth, Muggle whiskey her father swore he didn’t keep in the house but hid from her mother in the billiards parlour Millicent wasn't supposed to enter. She could almost bet this man tasted every bit as good as the whiskey. 

She had never been a delicate girl, but this man towered over her. He was at least a head or more taller than she was with dark hair, broad shoulders, thick forearms, a heavy brow, and a boyish smile which looked completely out of place on his face. 

“I think you were a Fourth Year when you socked me clean in the jaw. Don’t you remember?”

Her mind reeled. She probably took her anger out on a lot of people that year, some she knew and some she didn’t. It was the year she turned fifteen and her view of the world very quickly changed for the worse after that dismal day in November. 

“Did you deserve it?” she asked quietly, searching his face for any kind of tell. He was so familiar to her and, yet, she couldn’t place him. 

“Probably,” he shrugged, his hands smoothing over the dark silk covering her arms. 

She winced. 

His brow furrowed, concerned. 

“Did he hurt you?” 

She averted her eyes before he could see the truth reflected back at him. “I’m fine,” she replied, taking a step back. She knew Lucian would be searching the Ministry for her room-by-room and it wouldn’t do for him to arrive at her home without her present. If the letter from the Ministry hadn’t arrived, she’d be marrying him tomorrow and spending her wedding night in the arms of an animal with her voice stolen and the fight beaten out of her. 

“That’s not what I asked,” he said, his tone firm, dangerous. 

She flinched.

“If you’ll excuse me…” she finally said, her voice quiet and unsure. As Millicent turned to leave, her robes swished around her knees, giving the wizard a glimpse of her torn stocking and the bloodied area where Lucian’s fingernails had cut into her skin. She didn’t even register the pain of the still oozing wound. 

She found herself in his arms again and that feeling of home washed over her once more. Her head automatically fell against his chest as his arms tightened around her. “He did hurt you.” 

She didn’t say anything, throat constricting from years of being silenced for saying anything other than what was expected. _“If you can’t learn how to be a proper lady and say proper things, you’ll say nothing at all,”_ her mother said. _“You’ll thank me for it when you remember to hold your tongue instead of arguing with your husband. Good girls are quiet and kind and they do as they’re told.”_

His breath hitched and she felt the soft brush of lips against the crown of her head. “I’m so sorry, MJ… If I'd known.” 

No one had called her that since she was in school and she’d fallen out of touch over the years with anyone who would’ve even thought to use that nickname. How did he know it? There was still a sense of familiarity surrounding this giant, savior of a man, but she couldn’t place it. She didn’t _know_ him. She swallowed down the constriction in her throat. “Do we know each other?” 

“Do we…?” he sounded bewildered, distraught even, as his voice cracked. “Gods, what did they do to you?” 

“I don’t understand.” 

**_Because a vision softly creeping_ **

**_Left its seeds while I was sleeping_ **

She found herself pulled through the stark, white corridors of St. Mungo’s to a desk with a pretty receptionist, an ornate quill, and a large book. “Name and complaint, please,” she said, seemingly bored as she blew a bubble of Drooble’s Best from between violet pink lips. 

The man spoke for her. “Millicent Jane Bulstrode. I think she’s been Obliviated.” 

“And you are?” the receptionist asked, marking down Millicent’s name and the information the man gave in a neat script on the parchment. 

“Graham Montague.” 

“Relation?” she drawled, blowing another bubble. 

“Husband,” he said, holding out his own purple envelope like the one Lucian took from her. She could just make out the tops of the letters from where she stood, clearly spelling out her name. She’d had an inkling he was her match and this only served to prove it. A sense of relief washed over her that someone, _anyone_ other than Lucian had been selected for her. 

Her father held less sway than she’d been made to believe, apparently. Thank the gods. 

“This is just a selection card,” the receptionist said, waving him off. “You’ll have to provide something more substantial to receive spousal rights.” 

Millicent looked up at the wizard finding nothing more than a passive familiarity in his face, like she’d merely seen him as she passed other students in the halls of Hogwarts. His name vaguely registered from the Quidditch matches she’d attended but when she looked at him, he was utterly unremarkable. It was as if someone had cast a Notice-Me-Not around him and that didn’t sit well with her. 

It wasn’t that he had taken liberties, but he’d held her like she was precious to him, kissed her midnight-black hair when he learned she’d been harmed, and reacted poorly when she didn’t have an inkling of who he might be; immediately whisking her through a floo and to the hospital. 

Something was wrong.

“I-I think he might be right,” she said, quietly. “I should know him… and I don’t.” 

The pain of her admission was evident on Graham’s face, though he squeezed her hand reassuringly and tried to school his features into something more comforting. 

“Wait over there,” the receptionist said, waving her hand towards a large room filled with chairs behind a set of double doors. “One of the Mind Healers will be with you shortly.” 

They sat in silence, Graham running his thumb across the ridges of Millicent’s knuckles. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t look at him. She watched his thumb move reverently across the back of her hand until her name was called and they were following a Healer-in-Training to a ward on a different floor. 

Graham seemed reluctant to release her when the Healer asked her to lie on the cot so he could perform some scans. A flurry of colors, runes, and pulses filled the air around her; the Healer and two others in training robes scribbling furiously on bits of parchment. 

“Are you comfortable with Mr. Montague in the room, Miss Bulstrode?” the Healer asked, his eyes trained on the shifting aurora above her. “I’ll be asking you some difficult questions.” 

Millicent turned her head, blue eyes meeting amber brown as she searched for something she couldn’t quite understand. The feeling that he’d been disillusioned to her eyes came back and he wavered, form slightly blurry. 

“I can leave if you want me to, MJ,” he said, though Millicent could see from the anguished fire in his eyes that he didn’t want to let her from his sight. He was afraid. 

“I’m on your card,” she said. 

“You are.” 

“Not Lucian’s.” 

“No, mine.” His tongue caressed the word with reverence as though he’d uttered it against her skin as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curves of her body. When Lucian said it, it made her blood run cold. When Graham said it, it lit a fire in her belly. 

“Stay, please,” she said, turning her attention to the Healers in the room. “I’d like him to stay,” she reaffirmed. 

“Miss Bulstrode, are you hurt?” the Healer asked, watching the aurora floating above her. 

“I’m fine,” she said, the automatic response dropping from between her lips. She’d said it so many times over the course of her life. She ignored the hurt, ignored the pain, ignored the invisible bruises. It was simply easier to let everyone think she was okay. That she was fine. 

“Have you been harmed in any way?”

“I’m fine.” The words tumbled from her mouth again, though she did not mean to say them this time. The colors above her changed. Her throat constricted.

“How long have you been a victim of sexual assault?” the Healer asked, his tone impassive. 

“I haven’t.” The words tore from her mouth in a harsh, rasping sound. Her brow furrowed in confusion. She’d had a different set of words poised on the tip of her tongue. _Seven Years_. That’s what she had been intending to say. 

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. 

The healer wrote something else down and turned his attention back to the colors, runes, and pulses of light. “Do you remember this gentleman at all? From before today, that is.”

“He’s fuzzy, like under a second year’s attempt at a Disillusionment Charm,” she admitted, turning her head to look at Graham. He seemed to be doing well just to hold himself together. Looking as though he were about to fly apart, Graham's knuckles were nearly white, his face ashen, and his gaze was blazing, though it softened when their eyes met. 

“Mr. Montague? I trust you have a different story.” 

His eyes bore into Millicent’s, his tone steady, controlled. “We dated for two years back in school, broke up a month or so before Christmas of her fifth year, my seventh when her parents entered her into a marriage contract with the Bole’s. I left the country for two years as an apprentice curse breaker after graduation. It’s been a little less than seven years since I’ve seen her.” 

Two years? She would have remembered two weeks with this man, let alone two years. Tears began to fill her eyes and she squeezed them tightly shut. “Why don’t I remember?” 

She stilled when the feeling of thick fingers carded through her dark, wavy hair. A thumb brushed across her brow and she turned her head, leaning into the sweet caress. Warmth flooded her body once again, flushing out the perpetual feeling of cold that seemed to cover her these days. 

There was a shuffle of feet and a whispered conversation but the air was still and aurora above her flickered and fluctuated as Graham continued to stroke her hair with one hand, his other hand finding hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’ll be okay, love,” he whispered. “We’ll fix this.” He attempted to hold his voice steady, but it wavered. 

“A few more tests are in order but it appears your initial assumption that she is suffering from memory loss is correct. Whether it is from the Obliviation Charm or not, we cannot say as of yet. She also appears to be under a misdirection spell wherein she may say one thing but mean another.”

Graham nodded. “There’s more?” 

“Repeated sexual assaults, multiple poorly healed contusions and fractures, scars from being cursed - some several years old, others more recent.” 

When Graham released her hand and tore away from her storming across the room, wand in hand, Millicent sat up. “Wait, please!” she called. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to ensure that Lucian Bole doesn’t live to see another day.” 

One of the Healers-in-Training blocked his path, a Shield Charm already in place. “Once the misdirection and memory charms have been addressed, Miss Bulstrode can give a statement to the Aurors. We highly recommend you sit back down and take this through the proper channels, Mr. Montague.” 

He took a deep shuddering breath and tucked his wand away, turning and taking slow steps back towards where Millicent lay. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If I’d known…” 

“I know.” 

And somehow, she did. 

**_And the vision that was planted in my brain_ **

**_Still remains_ **

It took the healers three days to reverse the spells her betrothed had layered over her mind, though her memories were unable to be recovered. Graham held her as she cried, strong arms wrapped around her, making her feel small and delicate though she knew she was neither of those things. When she gave her statement to the Aurors, he held her hand as she spoke to Junior Auror Potter who took down her details with a frown. When she was released, Graham and a small contingent of Aurors accompanied her to her parent’s home while she gathered her things. 

She moved into his modest flat later that day. 

**_Show yourself, step into your power_ **

**_Throw yourself into something new_ **

Living with Graham was completely different than anything she’d ever experienced. She’d never lived anywhere where she had to do for herself. A snap of her fingers was all it took to bring a house elf to her to fetch whatever she’d needed. Now, she had to cook and clean and wash her own clothing. It was like living in an alternate universe for the first few weeks. 

She slept in a small bed in the tiny office in his flat, though he offered to sleep in there while she took his bed. She thanked him, of course, but declined. The room was small, holding his desk, a bookshelf, the small bed, a simple dresser, and her mirror. Not once did he try to come into the room where she slept, save for the night she’d woken up sobbing in his arms from a nightmare.

It could have been a lingering effect of the silencing spells or merely her own inability to bring forth the words to say exactly how her dream affected her. She’d felt her throat constrict and her body being forced down against her will as Lucian’s scent had filled her nose. She could almost feel his hot breath on her skin as he forced himself over her in her dream. 

She couldn’t talk about it when Graham asked her what troubled her. The only words she managed to rasp out through her tears were, “ _please stay,”_ as she clung to him with a nearly palpable desperation.

He cradled her against his chest and pressed gentle kisses over the crown of her head as strong hands stroked along the curve of her back. She slept better in his arms for a scant few hours than she had on any given night over the past seven years. 

The next morning, he fixed her toast with blackberry jam and prepared her tea exactly how she favored it - with one sugar and a splash of cream. He read the _Prophet_ while they ate and she thumbed through _The Witching Hour_ ; a luxury she’d never been afforded at home. Her mind flashed back to the day she’d received the letter from the Ministry when she saw him spread raspberry compote over his toast.

When he glanced up from the paper and saw her wide-eyed gaze on his piece of toast, he smiled. “You never liked it.” 

Millicent nodded, glancing from the toast to Graham. “But you did.” 

He chuckled. “Is there a particular reason you’re staring at my breakfast, MJ?” 

“I tried to put it on my own toast, the day the Ministry letters came,” she admitted, curling her feet up under herself in the dining chair and leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand, elbow perched on the table. Her mother would have been appalled. 

Graham set his paper down and drew her free hand across the table, linking their fingers. “You used to fix it for me, when we were in school.” 

Millicent looked down at their joined hands, watching as Graham’s thumb moved across her own. “Will you tell me more,” she bit her bottom lip in uncertainty, “about us?” 

She’d avoided asking him about anything related to their shared past and when she’d written to Tracey to see what she knew, the witch only had a vague recollection of them being together in school. It wasn’t that her memory had been altered as well; Tracey and Millicent simply weren’t in the same social circles during their time in school. Tracey spent more time chasing after Daphne and Pansy while Millicent spent her time with several members of the Quidditch team, though she’d never been allowed to play. _“Quidditch is a man’s sport, Millicent. We women are better suited to the more delicate arts,”_ her mother had said. 

“Of course,” Graham said, squeezing her hand. “I have a few photographs from when we were kids.” 

Millicent nodded. “I’d like to see them.” 

“After breakfast.” 

**_Something is familiar_ **

**_Like a dream I can reach but not quite hold_ **

Tears gathered in the corners of Millicent’s eyes as she watched a younger and more gangly version of Graham fly a much younger and stockier version of herself in a low circle over the Quidditch pitch as she giggled. His arm was wrapped tightly around her waist and there was a mischievous curl to his lips as he whispered something into her ear. As she watched herself turn and give him a kiss on the cheek, the tears released, streaming down her cheeks in a warm line.

Graham pulled her into his lap four pictures ago and was softly rubbing his fingers along the curve of her arm, up and down in an attempt to soothe her. 

“It was real…” she whispered, her thumb tracing the worn edge of the photograph. 

Graham’s chin rested against her shoulder, his head resting against her own as he too, gazed down at the photograph. “Very much so.” 

“I want to remember…” Millicent said with a sniffle, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She could feel him frowning behind her, how the weight of his body sagged into hers, even as he held her close. He’d known her intimately and she’d been stolen from him; memories wiped away with no more than a passing trace of recognition when she looked at him. She couldn’t even imagine what that was like, but when their hands brushed or when he laughed, a surge of emotion coursed through her like a visceral remnant of a memory. She’d tried desperately to hold onto it but it was gone just as quickly as it came. 

“Graham?” she asked, turning in his lap to face him, fresh tears still on her cheeks despite her efforts. 

“Hm?” he hummed, lifting a hand to brush a lock of hair from her face. His hand settled against her cheek to wipe the tears away, eyes fixed on some point over her shoulder. 

“Will you kiss me?” Millicent knew it was brazen of her, but it was like she was searching for a memory that would not come. The sense of it lingered in her mind, just beyond her grasp. Looking at the happy girl in the pictures, zooming around on brooms or walking hand in hand through Hogsmeade, Millicent wanted to feel what _she_ felt… What she had felt before, but could no longer remember. 

His fingers stilled and he turned his face towards her, his eyes searching for something unknown in her gaze. “MJ… if this is -”

“It’s not,” Millicent insisted, slipping her arms around his neck as she straddled his lap, the blanket she’d covered herself with earlier was draped around her knees. “I promise.” 

Graham’s touch was tentative. This was unfamiliar territory for both of them. He’d held her when she cried and calmed her tears, but not once had it moved further than comfort. He’d been a perfect gentleman, true to his word. As his knuckles brushed against her cheek before threading into her midnight tresses, his other hand slowly wrapped around her back. Graham pulled her flush against his chest and, as he tilted her head back, Millicent’s eyes closed and her lips parted and Graham took the moment to study her features for just a moment before he pressed his lips to hers. 

It was chaste and sweet and he pulled back, his eyes once again searching her face for any sign that she was not okay. 

Whatever spark she had been feeling, whatever emotion had been lurking in her subconscious, was present the moment his lips touched hers and she felt it rush through her in a flurry of feeling. It was intoxicating. 

“You okay?” he asked, slipping his fingers from her hair to settle on her arm. 

“I’d like to keep doing that,” Millicent said quietly, her fingers toying with the fleece of the blanket. “When you kissed me, it was like I could remember. And I don’t know that I will ever remember, but there is something inside of me that does. Something that remembers that I loved you.”

“You loved me?” he asked, his forehead pressed against hers, lips ghosting over her cheek as though he were desperately seeking any kind of contact she would allow. Any little intimaces he could hold on to, fearful they would once again be ripped apart. 

“I think I must have,” Millicent said, pressing her lips softly against his, fingers combing through his dark hair. 

“I loved you too.” 

**_I’m arriving_ **

**_And it feels like I am home_ **

It wasn’t the first time she’d sat before the mirror with her left hand pressing against the cool glass, the heat of her body forming a small outline of condensation. 

She stared at her reflection in the mirror with her right arm wrapped around her middle to hold the blanket around her and her face bearing a calm, contented expression. Light from somewhere in the flat filtered through the cracked door as the moonlight shone through the open window, illuminating the room and casting shadows in the darkness of the wee hours of the morning.

The door opened and a presence settled against her back as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and soft lips pressed against the bare skin of her neck. 

“Everything okay?” Graham asked, pulling Millicent into his lap. The warmth of the blanket wrapped around them as his chin settled on her shoulder. She caught his eye in the mirror and tilted her head to rest against his.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. Her eyes fluttered closed as she sank back against Graham’s chest, a feeling of contentment washing over her as her body recalled how safe she’d always felt in his arms. Even if her mind couldn’t remember the before - the moment stolen from her, 

“Nightmare?”

“No, nothing like that,” she said, picking at the fabric of the blanket with her fingers for a quiet moment, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We’re getting married tomorrow.” 

His body tensed beneath her and she heard the rush of a breath as it entered his lungs. “MJ, if you -”

“Hush,” she said, shifting to press her nose against the side of his neck, breathing in the scent of spellfire and expensive cigars that clung to his skin. Millicent let it wash over her in a soothing wave and remind her of everything she had gained. They’d received their letter from the Ministry only a few days ago, it indicated where and when their nuptials would take place since neither had appealed the match within the established period. 

“I’m happy, Graham… For the first time in my life that I can remember, I’m not scared of having my voice taken away… or worse. And it’s all because of you.” She pressed her lips against the sensitive skin of his neck and felt a shudder course through him. “You saved me, Graham, and that is a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

His arms tightened around her, voice unsteady with emotion. “I should have done something sooner, I should have…” His voice trailed off and as she shifted in his arms, he pressed his face against her shoulder. His arms wrapped around her middle like a vice, as though she would disappear again if he released her even a fraction.

“You couldn’t have known,” she whispered, pulling her fingers through his hair. He started to protest, but she shushed him, her arms curled around his back.

“We’re going to build a life together; something no one can ever take away from us and it’s going to be filled with so much _love_ , Graham. I can feel it-” she drew back, hand pressing over her heart as he lifted his head from her shoulders, their eyes meeting in the moonlight. “- in here.” 

“A life,” his hand covered hers, “and a family.”

Millicent smiled, brushing her nose against Graham’s before pillowing her lips against his in a soft, reverent kiss. “Home.” 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
